When It All Ended
by 1895Always
Summary: Sometimes John wondered when it all ended; when the world ceased to be so invigorating and exhilarating, when they stopped being young and when they started being old.


Sometimes, John used to wonder when it all ended; when the world ceased to be so invigorating and exhilarating, when they stopped being young and started getting older. He would remind himself that he hadn't exactly been that young when he'd been invalided home from Afghanistan, but he had been a hell of a lot younger than he was now.

There were precise dates he could pinpoint, of course. He could remember very clearly the day he moved out of Baker Street for definite, the day he married Mary and everything that led up to Mary's early death. Somewhere along the way, he supposed it must have all ended. He could no longer recall the exact day when he stopped carrying round his old service revolver around with him everywhere he went. He could remember vividly how it felt cold, stealing away the heat of his body as it lay tucked against the small of his back. He knew how it felt in his hand, his firm, unshaking hand as he lined it up with his target; a target he would hit unfailingly. But now, however, he wasn't able to remember the last time he used it or even its current whereabouts. This was no great inconvenience to him though; it had been a long time since he needed to shoot a serial killer cabbie or anything else of the like. Growing up and growing old must have been a gradual process then.

Sherlock would have preferred it all to end in one last shining blaze of glory, John knew. Sherlock would have relished the idea of being blown to pieces or taking a bullet between the eyes if it meant bringing down one last obscure link of Moriarty's web, perhaps, of if he'd been caught up with some new criminal mastermind. The long and gradual descent brought about by the inevitable process of getting older would not have been his first choice by any means. The slow but definite weakening of the muscles and creaking of joints and limbs wasn't particularly affable to John either, but he knew Sherlock felt it with a stronger intensity that John felt was possible. Neither would ever say it of course, but John knew his old flatmate was terrified of losing his grip on the extraordinary brainpower for which he was renowned. He needn't have worried though, for the most part, his mind was a sharp as it had ever been.

It had been a while since he'd seen Sherlock, John reflected, as the cab trundled slowly up Baker Street, finally coming to a halt outside 221B. Far too long. He'd always accepted that they'd see less of each other, especially once he'd moved out. He'd been too busy juggling a full time job (at last) at an upmarket private clinic with newly married life to go solving crimes with Sherlock at all hours of the night. Even after Mary had died and he had become devastatingly lonely as a result, he didn't see Sherlock as much as he probably should have. Sherlock had never been particularly fond of her, that much had always been clear. When she'd died, John was still relatively young to be a widower, and he had been tempted to simply move back into Baker Street. He knew Sherlock would have no objections to it, he'd hinted at it more than once and always maintained that the upstairs bedroom was ready and waiting for him. He hadn't though. To move back into 221B would be to, in effect, rewind back all the years of his marriage and go back to the way things used to be.

Sherlock would have liked that, John knew, to essentially remove all traces of Mary and act like the marriage had never happened. John couldn't do that though. If he moved back, then it wouldn't be too long until he was getting caught up in Sherlock's cases again, updating his blog, risking both their lives on a daily basis, and keeping such irregular hours at the clinic that he was forced to give it up completely. He couldn't do that, not after all he'd worked for, and it certainly wouldn't be fair to Mary's memory, just to completely disregard her like that.

So he'd stayed away. They had kept in touch though, text messages mainly since Sherlock had always detested actually making a phone call, and John had always scanned the newspapers when an interesting murder or robbery came up and was usually rewarded with a discrete mention of his friend's name in the article.

John wasn't sure what made him decide to come to Baker Street on this particular afternoon. All he knew was he had lain in bed the previous night, suddenly gripped with an overwhelming desire to see his friend and their old flat again. As he made his way slowly up the stairs, he was filled with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia that threatened to engulf him completely. He was struck with such a vivid recollection of his very first visit to Baker Street all those years before when he'd limped up these same stairs, leaning heavily on a cane that was not dissimilar to the one now clutched in his hand. He smiled slightly ruefully. Sadly, his need for a cane these days was anything but psychosomatic and though he obviously hadn't tried it, he knew a rooftop chase across the London skyline wouldn't help matters.

He paused at the top of the staircase for a moment, catching his breath and regaining his composure. Again, he was irresistibly reminded of that day, when Sherlock had waited for him at the top of the stairs before pushing open the door to the flat and inviting John into his brand new life. He couldn't have known where the rest of the evening's events would take him; attending a murder scene, being intercepted by someone he later discovered was Sherlock's older brother, a dinner that turned into a chase round London, all before taking matters into his own hands and shooting a serial killer to save a man he'd only known a matter of hours. It was a fair indication of all that was to come, really.

As John reached out a fist to knock the door, he caught the familiar sounds of a violin being played. It seemed a shame to interrupt it really, especially since Sherlock was actually playing a proper discernible melody for once, rather than just scraping away on it as he was sometimes prone to do. Still, he hadn't spent all that money on a taxi fare just to stand on the wrong side of a closed door all afternoon. His loud knock on the door was immediately rewarded by an abrupt ending to the violin playing and the deep voice he knew so well calling out, 'Who is it?'

'It's me,' he answered. 'John.'

There was a moment of silence before the answer came. 'Come in then.'

John pushed the door open and as the room came into view, the years seemed to melt away, just like that. He could have gone back in time; such was the perfect preservation of the rooms he'd once occupied. His gaze fell upon Sherlock; still a distinctive figure, even after all these years, silhouetted against the glare of the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. His body was as long and lithe as ever, though perhaps even thinner than usual, John noted with a frown. He'd have to check the kitchen cupboards before he went home and make sure they were well stocked up. Laying his violin gently on his lap and setting his bow aside, Sherlock looked up as John limped slowly over the threshold.

'I didn't know you were coming visiting today,' he commented lightly.

'Lovely to see you too,' John replied with a small smile, carefully lowering himself into the armchair facing Sherlock. 'I just fancied a visit, is that alright?'

Sherlock's eyes widened but John noticed that he did actually smile, if only for a brief moment. 'Do you want some tea?'

Settling back against the familiar cushions, John felt surprised. In all the years he'd known him, Sherlock had never offered to make him a cup of tea. The only thing that came remotely close was that infamous cup of coffee he'd made when they'd been working with poor Henry Knight down in Dartmoor. That didn't count though. Hopefully this time, Sherlock wasn't trying to test out a potential drug on him.

'Yeah, that'd be lovely-' John began, at exactly the same moment that Sherlock said, 'You know where the kitchen is.'

Of course. He should have known the git wouldn't offer to make the tea, not if John was there to make it for him, which he was.

'Black, two sugars,' Sherlock called as John heaved himself out of his armchair and limped towards the kitchen.

John didn't have to see Sherlock's smarmy grin to know that it'd be there. 'You used to take milk,' he observed, filling the kettle with water.

'How observant of you,' Sherlock said drily. 'But I couldn't very well take milk if there was nobody to buy it, could I?' he added, matter of factly.

The frank admission left John feeling a little uncomfortable and, he couldn't believe it, a bit sad. He busied himself with arranging some chocolate digestives on a plate until he could think of something to say.

'You could always just go to the shop and buy some yourself, you do know that? John said lightly, pushing Sherlock's tea towards him and taking a handful of biscuits for himself.

Sherlock shrugged, taking a sip of tea and wrinkling his nose slightly. 'You get used to things,' he said frankly.

'Oh.' John couldn't think how else to respond, so he contented himself with dipping a biscuit into his tea.

For a while, the conversation drifted into safer, more pleasant channels but before long, John found himself looking around the room, practically overcome with memories of the past.

'What's the matter?' Sherlock asked, noticing that it was John, for once, whose thoughts were detached and faraway.

'Nothing,' John sighed. 'It's just…well…Sherlock, when did it all end?'

Sherlock frowned. 'When did what all end?'

'You know…this,' he said uncomfortably, gesturing around the room, 'you being the world's only consulting detective and all that.'

'I'm still the only consulting detective in the world John. I invented the job.'

'Sherlock,' he said, sternly, 'you know what I mean.'

'Is someone feeling sentimental today? I can't abide sentiment, you know that.'

John smiled. 'I know, I know, I haven't gone daft in my old age. It's just…when did life start slowing down?'

'As far as I'm aware, time continues to pass at the same rate as always.'

'Seriously, Sherlock.'

Sherlock considered this for a moment, his thin fingers steepled under his chin. 'Well,' he said slowly, 'I suppose you might say things began to slow down at bit when Lestrade finally retired from the force. When he left, his replacement wasn't very…well, let's just say keen, to continue consulting me.'

'Do you miss it?' John asked, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. He instantly regretted the question. Of course Sherlock missed those days, even John couldn't fail to see that. His former flatmate had barely changed the rooms they once used to share in all the years he'd lived there. Two armchairs were still positioned either side of the fireplace, that bloody skull still sat there on the mantel and even that smiley face painted onto the wallpaper continued to grin out at them, bullet holes still perfectly visible through the fading yellow paint. It was perfectly obvious he still lived for the old days.

'Yes,' Sherlock answered, without missing a beat. 'Don't you?'

The seemingly simple question rendered John speechless for a moment. _Did _he miss it? Did he miss coming down in the middle of the night for a glass of water and finding a severed head in the fridge? Did he miss constantly taking days off work because Sherlock demanded he be present at a crime scene, or finding his flatmate firing guns at all hours of the night or being so bloody infuriated by sodding Sherlock and his sharp wit every day?

'Yes,' he said truthfully.

He did miss those days with an intensity that seemed to grow stronger as the years went on. He missed when Sherlock had completed a particularly complex case and they'd go for a celebratory dinner to Angelo's. Sherlock would make such frank deductions about their fellow diners that John was often left gasping for breath, gripping the edge of the table for support and blinking tears out of his eyes as he attempted to hold in his laughter. He missed watching Sherlock changing, ever so slightly and barely even noticeable at times, from the high functioning sociopath he claimed to be to the most human human being John had ever known. And when Sherlock had supposedly died, jumped off the rooftop at Bart's before John's very eyes, his whole world had come crashing down around him. He had given John his life back from where he believed it was irretrievably gone and whatever the man said about heroes, John knew that Sherlock was undoubtedly the finest he knew. The man was his best friend. Of course he missed the old days.

'Good,' Sherlock answered and John noted a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 'It's nice to know our years of companionship did mean something to you.'

John leaned back into the armchair he'd always occupied and took a deep gulp of his now lukewarm tea, surveying Sherlock carefully over the rim of his mug.

Sherlock took up his violin once more, carefully running one long finger up and down the strings. 'I suppose things did change a bit when you moved out,' he added conversationally, as though they were discussing nothing more than the day's weather.

'Really?' John asked, surprised.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. 'Of course. I was living on my own again, wasn't I?' he said quickly and almost, John noticed, defensively. 'No one to remind me to eat something every now and then, no one to hide the cigarettes. Mrs Hudson did try for a while, but the top drawer in her living room cabinet wasn't exactly difficult to find.'

The pair was silent for a moment, each lost in thought about their beloved landlady who'd died some years previously, before Sherlock spoke again.

'Things were never quite the same anyway after I…came back,' he said hesitantly, a faint flush creeping into his pale cheeks.

Instantly, John's whole composure hardened. Setting his mug down rather more forcefully than was necessary, he regarded Sherlock with a slightly narrowed eye and a thinly pressed mouth. 'We've talked about this,' he said firmly, his fist involuntarily tightening around his cane. 'A lot. We've been over it a lot and it still doesn't make it an awful lot easier to be honest. Taking three years of your life to mourn your best friend and then discovering he's actually been alive all that time and just didn't want to contact you is something you never really get over. After all that, you couldn't have expected us just to go on as normal as if that had never happened! You couldn't have expected me to just drop everything and come running back to our old lives, could you?'

'Well I know that now,' Sherlock said quickly. 'At the time, perhaps I didn't and clearly I was mistaken.'

John sniffed dismissively. 'You're not actually serious, are you?' he scoffed. 'You thought everything and everyone would just pick up where you'd left off, as if you'd never gone away?'

John knew he shouldn't still be this angry, not after all this time, but he couldn't help it. He'd remember the day Sherlock came back until the day he died. He'd been at a fancy restaurant with Mary, a restaurant that was rather beyond his usual price range, strictly speaking, but that hadn't mattered. He'd been planning to propose to her that night. He'd worn his best suit and tie and had a waiter on standby with a bottle of champagne. All through the meal, he'd felt the hard little ring box in his top pocket, trying to imagine Mary's reaction and just hoping she'd say yes. Then, just before the desserts came, Mary had nipped to the loo and John was left sitting alone, going over the speech he'd tried to prepare for the umpteenth time.

'Mary, we've being seeing each other for a year and a half now, and I think now's the time before we get older…no, I didn't mean you're old or anything like that…' He'd trailed off as a tall dark shadow loomed across the table. The waiter who'd taken their coats earlier had been tall and wiry, so John had assumed it was him without even looking up. 'The lady's just gone to the bathroom,' he informed the waiter. 'She'll be back in a minute. Have the champagne ready, fingers crossed!'

'John.'

The single syllable, his name, the word he'd heard every day of his life shocked him into silence. He hadn't heard his name spoken in that way, in that voice, for almost three years. He'd looked up, trying to fight the bizarre mixture of emotions threatening to overwhelm him; shock, confusion and just the slightest sliver of disbelieving hope.

Sherlock had been standing there, in the same sharp suit and tightly fitted shirt he'd always worn. His lips had moved, but John heard nothing. The whole world seemed to slow down, as the impossible unfolded before his eyes. He had dreamed of this for almost exactly three years; that it had all been a hoax and Sherlock wasn't dead after all. Clearly, if anyone could outsmart death, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

'I-It's really real?' John had stammered, sure this hallucination would vanish at any second.

The merest hint of a smile had tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips. 'It's me, John.'

'You're not really dead?'

'I'm not really dead,' Sherlock had confirmed.

What had happened next was a bit of a blur in John's mind. He could vaguely remember his hand contracting into a tight fist, and before he was really aware of what he was doing, that fist had planted itself right in the middle of Sherlock's face. The hot and shockingly scarlet blood that had quickly spurted from Sherlock's nose had been grimly satisfying, he recollected. He could dimly remember yelling something along the lines of 'You're not really dead! Three years! Three bloody years, you bastard! You let me think you were dead for three bloody years!'

It hadn't been long before the restaurant manager had gripped them both by their collars, the enraged, incensed John and the bleeding, silent Sherlock, and forcefully escorted them from the premises.

He remembered standing on the pavement on a wet London evening, staring at a dead man. A dead man who was most definitely alive and pressing a napkin to his bleeding nose.

'I can explain it all,' Sherlock had offered, his voice somewhat muffled from behind the blood-stained napkin.

'I should bloody well hope so,' John had snapped, firing off a quick text to Mary to let her know he was waiting for her outside. 'Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking, just turning up like that in the middle of a restaurant? I could have had a heart attack! And how on earth did you even know I was there? Actually, don't answer that, I don't want to know.'

'I thought a public place might be better,' Sherlock had muttered. 'I thought your reaction might be less…heated if there were others present.'

'Less heated?' John had exploded. 'Less bloody _heated_? Sherlock, you turn up here after three years of being dead, how did you think I was going to react?'

For a moment, Sherlock had looked like a sullen child, wiping the worst of the blood away with his sleeve and when he'd spoken, it had been with a childish and plaintive tone. 'Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I did think you might be pleased to see me.'

John had been unwilling to admit it at the time, but there was a part of him that was completely and unashamedly happy to see Sherlock again. He'd begged at his friend's grave for one more miracle, and now it had been granted. Beyond hope and logic and reason, the miracle had been granted. But he'd been livid, absolutely livid, about the three years of hell he'd gone through, grieving for a man who'd given him his life back and then ended his own. He hadn't been able to express all that at once. When Mary had come out of the restaurant, with both their coats over her arm and looking thoroughly confused about why the weren't finishing their meal, John had simply grabbed her hand.

'Tomorrow, Sherlock,' he'd called over his shoulder as he'd pulled Mary away. 'Phone me tomorrow, I can't believe…I can't speak about it. Not at the minute.'

'I'm sorry, John,' Sherlock said quietly, shocking John out of his thoughts and bak to the present.

'What?'

'I said I'm sorry,' Sherlock said, in that same quiet and thoughtful voice. 'For…that. For leaving and not explaining, and putting you through…that.'

'You had your reasons,' John muttered.

Sherlock sighed deeply, setting his violin aside and leaning forwards, resting his chin on his fingertips. 'I know I did. And you know I did. But that didn't make it any easier, I suppose.'

'No, it didn't,' John agreed. 'But when did you become such an expert on my feelings?'

'Well, I was already an expert on most other things, so I decided to try my hand at sentiment,' Sherlock said, in a much more light hearted tone than John had heard him use of late, but the smile quickly slid from his face. 'Seriously, though, I am sorry.'

John frowned. 'What's brought all this on then?'

'I've been thinking, John,' Sherlock said quietly, 'quite a lot about the whole Reichenbach business and what I put you through. And how I would feel if our roles had been reversed.'

'What do you mean?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'I mean, how would I feel if you were the one who…jumped, or at least gave the illusion of it, and I was the one who had to stand by and witness it all. And then go through years of grieving. Even the best reasons in the world, which I had, can't completely excuse that.'

John felt slightly confused and more than a little wrong footed as he stared at his old flatmate, who stared straight back, fingers locked together under his sharp, angular face.

'Seriously, what's brought all this on?' he asked again.

Sherlock smiled sadly, taking a deep breath. 'I've been thinking a lot,' he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. 'I've had to think a lot. You see, John, recently, I, well, I was coerced into attending a medical appointment.'

'Mycroft?' John asked, in what he hoped was a light and airy tone, attempting to dispel the slight tendrils of fear beginning to snake around his insides.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock confirmed with a small smile, though his voice was firm and business like. 'My brother can be rather persuasive when he's feeling up to it. Under duress, I attended this appointment.'

'It wasn't good, was it?'

'Always the doctor,' Sherlock replied. 'But you're right. Of course.'

John attempted to remain professional, the calm and collected Doctor Watson, but his heart ultimately won over his head. 'What is it?' he asked, his voice immediately full of concern.

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders. 'That doesn't matter.'

'Of course it does,' John protested.

'Not particularly,' Sherlock yawned. 'All that really matters, I suppose, is the time frame.'

'The time frame?' John questioned, not really wanting to probe the subject. The words 'time frame' in conjunction with a serious medical appointment didn't bode well.

'Yes, John, the time frame, how long the illness can be expected to last for until it all ends.'

'Until you get better?' John asked, nursing some slender, childish hope, even though he knew he was deliberately barking up the wrong tree.

'Something along those lines,' Sherlock said, sparing them both the pain of saying the truth aloud.

'What is the time frame?' John asked, knowing he should and yet fearful of hearing the answer.

'A year,' Sherlock said, 'at the most.' Despite his quiet volume, his voice didn't falter or break once.

'A year?' John repeated incredulously. 'A year? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, a bloody year?'

John sat back in his chair, his heart racing, his breath catching in his throat. A year. That was it. One more year until the world lost Sherlock Holmes for good.

'Hospital?' he asked, feeling incapable of forming proper, coherent sentences.

'They did offer that option, but I refused. If I am to die, which they assure me I am, then I'd rather it not be anywhere near Bart's. This time.'

His tone was light and seemingly inconsequential, but John could see the tiniest flicker of fear in those steely eyes, possibly for the first time in all the years he'd known Sherlock.

'You'll need a doctor,' John said brusquely. 'If you won't go into hospital, then you'll need someone here.'

'I'm sure Mycroft will find someone,' Sherlock said with a yawn. 'That's his way of coping with things, I assume, doing all he can and organising everything without actually crossing the doorway.'

John had made his decision before he was even conscious of it. In many ways, he supposed, his decision had been made for him years ago, when he'd first moved into 221B and accepted the companionship of Sherlock Holmes.

'Mycroft doesn't need to find anyone,' he said firmly. 'I can do it. I'd be glad to do it. I'm a doctor.'

'If fact you're an army doctor,' Sherlock replied with a wry smile. 'Any good?'

John returned the smile, feeling simultaneously younger than he'd felt in years and an old, old man. 'Very good.'

A comfortable and companionable silence fell as John contemplated exactly what he'd just signed up to. In many ways, he now found himself in exactly the same position as he had all those years before.

'Are you sure?' Sherlock asked some time later. 'This wasn't what I'd intended. Reflecting on what happened before, I didn't want you, or anyone, to have to go through that again.'

'Don't be an idiot,' John said sharply. 'I'm your best friend, Sherlock, of course I'm going to help you.'

'Don't feel obliged.'

'You'd rather I stayed away? Don't be stupid, I've done enough of that lately.'

'But I swore I'd never make anyone watch me die again.' Sherlock said quietly.

'Do I have to spell it out for you?' John said slowly. 'I'm your best friend and I want to help. Besides, maybe if I'd actually come to see you more often, then I could have spotted this sooner.'

'Stop it,' Sherlock said quickly.

'Sorry.' John sighed. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to seriously inconvenience you though.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I think I'll need to move back into the upstairs bedroom.'

That evening, Sherlock sat back in his chair, watching John close the door behind him as he promised to be back in a few hours with his things.

He hadn't been entirely truthful with John earlier. He knew exactly when it had all ended. In fact, it had ended several times over and each instance had been like a further nail in the coffin. The moment he'd seen that woman in the restaurant with John when he'd decided to make his unnecessarily dramatic reappearance, he knew the old part of their lives was over. Even after she'd died, Sherlock had known that John would never move back in, not really, though he'd brought the subject up often enough. And then, it was about eight or nine years ago, john had popped over on one of his rare visits, Sherlock had, just for an experiment, nicked the old service revolver from John's coat pocket. John had never noticed and had never mentioned it again. Clearly, John no longer felt in danger, he no longer felt the thrill and excitement of the chase. And thus ended another part of Sherlock's life.

Of course, in a literal sense, Sherlock's life had ended the week before, when the doctor, he'd deleted the man's name already, had looked over his spectacles at him and told him the bad news.

But he had ha year left, he reminded himself sharply. He had a year left. He had John back now and he knew things could never be the same as they were before. The dull ache in his tired limbs and the folder filled with medical notes waiting on the table for John to read when he came home served as a reminder of this. Of course things couldn't be the same; they were both older now, John had moved on with his life and now Sherlock was ill. Dying, in fact.

The former parts of both their lives were well and truly over. But perhaps a new, if fated to be extremely short lived, part was just starting. After all, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were back together in 221B Baker Street. Just as they should be.


End file.
